


where the heart-attack machine is strapped

by voodoochild



Category: 1984 - George Orwell, The Hour
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Dirty Talk, F/M, Mindfuck, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She brings out the worst in him; all Randall wants is to be Pure. (Takes place in the 1984-verse.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the heart-attack machine is strapped

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo's April mini-challenge, for the kinks "exposure/exhibitionism", "spaces, scenes, and settings", and "dirty talk". Also written for Em, who asked very nicely for something completely different. Oops? Blame the sociopaths.
> 
> Set in the same universe as [just a pawn, ready to advance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/605952), a few years before the events of that story.
> 
> Title from Bob Dylan's "Desolation Row".

It must be done in the light, he decides.

Their time is the dark, shadows hiding what's gone so far beyond thoughtcrime he doesn't know what to call it. Calling it a sin or a transgression would imply repentance. There is no penance he could perform to make himself pure again, no reeducation program strenuous enough. He's tried. It's buried too deeply in him - she's buried too deeply in him. He is as she has made him, and she is as he has made her. 

Fist and glove, she calls it, and he never feels it more keenly than when the guilt comes.

Sometimes he believes himself alone in his - it isn't regret. There isn't a thing he regrets about Lix Storm, save not meeting her sooner. She never seems to be bothered by their relationship, can reconcile the crimes they've committed with the obliteration of others for the same crimes. She's made of sharper stuff than him, in that sense, because she believes them above the law. Big Brother's laws are for proles, for Outer Party, for the sheep in the streets who bleat along with the Two Minutes Hate and never think of why. They're different, they're smarter and faster and more vicious, the culmination of what power can do and be.

He isn't satisfied, wants to be better, purer. 

She just doesn't care.

Lately, it feels like they're ripping apart at the seams, and he doesn't know why. She's been hinting that he's growing soft, that the ice in him has melted, and as all of her manipulations do, it worked. So he decides he'll see how far her daring goes. He schedules the Minitrue guards carefully, tunes the telescreens to a certain frequency, drops just enough hints to her one night to ensure she'll come up to his office the next day. She knows he has an agenda - of course he does, and of course she knows, they can't hide anything from each other.

The entire morning, it feels as if his skin is on fire, the way it used to feel when they met at the little flat in Charing Cross. Blood boiling in his veins, head spinning with possibilities and strangeness, because he'd never so much as looked at a woman with desire before her. He organizes the viewing figures, rewrites tonight's Victory Broadcast, signs the orders to vaporize a man who had claimed to have known Lix before she became Party.

He hears her voice down the corridor, crisply dismissing the guards - the same ones he's instructed to come back after she dismisses them and then wait until he dismisses them himself. Nothing else announces her impending presence, she foregoes both the heeled boots worn by Party women and the heavier flat boots of the Party men. She wears simple, comfortable shoes that make no noise, because no one ever saw Lix Storm coming before, and no one will now. She slinks through Minitrue like the ghost she is - jokingly calls herself "Schrodinger", for the cat in the box, neither alive nor dead - and closes his office door behind her.

"What do you think you're plotting, darling?" she says, voice like a whip through the silence of his office.

He looks up from the Miniluv dispatches, signs off on the one least likely to cause apoplexy in the general populace, and raises his eyebrow. "Got your attention, did I?"

"You wanted me here, at this specific time, on this day. Why?"

The clock on the wall strikes fifteen, and the klaxon goes off a moment afterward. The telescreen turns to the broadcast he's approved, and the Voice talks about a readiness drill, that everyone should stay where they are for twenty minutes, and shut up all buildings in preparation for attack (what type doesn't matter, Eastasia, Eurasia, SUD, nothing matters). The guards step into his office, and he goes through the motions of instructing them to inspect the 130th through 140th floors. Yes, he and Miss Storm will be fine here. They'll comply with the drill procedure - there is no drill procedure, not really, the proles make up things and convince themselves that they're right - and they'll be right here when the lockdown is lifted.

The corner of Lix's mouth lifts in a smile, and she turns the lock in the door after the guards march out. 

"Bravo."

"May I ask why you're congratulating me?"

"Because, you audacious bastard," she says, toeing off her shoes, "I didn't think you had it in you."

He unbuttons his cuffs, placing his cufflinks into their box. It wouldn't do to misplace them, they're sterling silver. "Didn't I? You'd know. You ensured I'd be more than a match for your passions, once mine were properly roused."

She laughs, low and warm and filthy, and hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her regulation grey trousers. Teases it out, and with the grit of his jaw, laughs again and slides them down her legs. Her shirt is next, warm black cotton unbuttoned one button at a time and slid carelessly off her shoulders. She stands tall and shameless in her bra and knickers right in his office, midday sun glaring in the window of the 155th floor, and saunters across the carpet until she's *just* at the edge of where the telescreen could record her.

"Did you-?"

He lets himself smile, as cold and vicious as he wants, and shrugs. "Perhaps I did. Perhaps I didn't."

"Stop pissing about, Randall - did you or didn't you? If it's recording, you know what they'll do."

Oh, how novel - she actually looks _worried_ , like she does care about being caught and sent to reeducation. She has to know, objectively, that he would never let that happen, that she only ever goes for reeducation when *he* decrees it so, but the human brain is a curious set of processes. She can even forget what she is when she's faced with a situation that overwhelms her. It's the unpredictability of him engineering this, the war in her blood of fear and desire - she wants this desperately, but she cannot control any of it.

"Mmm, I imagine they'll attempt reeducation. Possibly a trip to Miniluv and Room 101, do you think? For an infraction of this caliber?" She stands frozen, staring at him, and he unbuttons his suit jacket, sits back in his chair. "The question is, how badly do you want this? Because I'm willing to risk it."

She shivers, as if there's a chill in a room that has never met actual air. Looks to the telescreen and back to him, clasps her hands tightly behind her back in a ridiculous tell he'd thought he'd trained out of her. "You'd do this - here? Now? Knowing that even if the telescreen's off, there isn't a lock on that door."

"I would." He can't keep the growl from his voice; her reluctance has only made him more desperate for her. "Do you want to know how I'll have you?"

"Yes," she chokes out. 

"Over this desk, I think. Your pretty arse up and your breasts pressed against the Voice's speech for tomorrow and your cunt dripping onto the wood. You claim you hate it from behind, but you'd love this, wouldn't you? Spread out for me - I'll fuck you like that, make you come biting down onto your hand, and then I'll let you ride me in my chair. Will that suit?"

Lix exhales heavily on a moan, eyes darkening midnight blue, and shivers as she takes one last look at the telescreen. She reaches behind her to unfasten her bra, lets it drop and shimmies her knickers down her hips in the same motion. His breath catches at the sight - it's so rare he sees her in daylight, and he holds up a hand to stop her from moving so he can savor it. Christ, she's beautiful, full, lush breasts, hips curving out in a flare, dark hair curling over her cunt, long legs he could map blind. There's the scar on her left thigh from the knife in that mob, the burn mark from reeducation on her right wrist. There's the bite mark just on the underside of her right breast he'd left last night.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and lets her approach. Shoves his chair back and gets to his feet. She goes to embrace him, and he pushes her facedown onto the desk, legs spread and forearms balancing her. 

"Ah-ah. My office. My rules."

"Oh, god," she says, tensing under his hand but staying put. "I didn't -" She shivers all over, stretches like a cat, back arched and arse on display, and settles languidly back down. "Yes, your rules. So you keep saying. You haven't told me to do anything yet."

He leans down, mouth to her ear in a sharp little bite. "Stay. still."

Warily, she obeys, and he could purr for it. Oh, he'll have to find ways to fuck her in daylight more often, and he maps the familiar planes of her body. Sweeps her hair back from the nape of her neck, and takes in the beautifully vulnerable curve of it. He presses his mouth to her skin, tastes sweat and perfume and her, and it's sharper somehow in the light. The flush travels throughout her body, warming with desire and anticipation, and it's an achingly sweet pinkness across her breasts. He wants more of it, more of the blood beneath her skin, and he lets his teeth sink into the curve of her shoulder.

She cries out for it, then goes completely still in fear, and he laughs. "You haven't been shy a day in your life, sweetheart. I'll hear you, and so will anyone else who cares to listen."

"I - Randall, do you know what we're doing - they'll-"

"They," he says, digging his hands into her wrists, "can line up and sodding watch. You'll scream, my girl, and I don't care who hears."

She screams for him too many times to count, and it's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He has her over his desk and then in his chair, as he'd promised, and by the end of it, she's as wild and reckless and laughing as she always is. Her skin is littered with bites and scratches, and his suit barely creases, which drives her even more mad. He sends her over the edge with six whispered words, and can't help but follow her as she sobs and shakes for him:

"The screen was never turned off."

It's technically true, as he confesses to her later - he's just set the footage to loop and erased all recordings taken during the drill. It doesn't matter, at the moment, he's just as exhilarated and terrified as she is. Every nuance of emotion, laid bare by the light. 

Pure. 

She's never been more beautiful to him, and he knows that after this, she'll pay him back for exposing her weakness. She'll twist his desire further. It will tie him in further knots, make him feel more sullied, and he'll deserve every moment of it. He loves her cruelty, he loves her passion, and he'll love her even as he loses himself to madness.

Fist and glove: what he can't admit, even to himself, is that she's both.

He's the face she crushes.


End file.
